Romantic Crisis
Romantic Crisis
Bleary-eyed and weary, I turned on the computer, hoping to
rediscover the beauty of the word. It seemed to elude me as I tried to
create a timeless character, the likes of which had never been seen before.
The process was simple enough; put fingers to keyboard and begin to type.
My fingers had a soul of their own; their
life was long depleted. I once dreamed of emulating my cousin, a former
Boston University who wrote critically-acclaimed tales of injustice. It was
called revisionism. For all of the times I was able to imbue passion into a
piece about the plight of the Cherokee Nation, or the protests that took
place in Vietnam-era America, I thought I would be well on my way. But I am
not my cousin, and I found a new style accordingly.
I would employ yet again the elusive Tom, a Massachusetts politician
who had struggled to find his own identity. Or perhaps he would have a
female equivalent. Everybody loves a series full of political satire. Then
again, if Tom is the prototypical politician, why further exhaust the idea? I
looked for a new source of inspiration, and Tom was out with the rain.
Perhaps I would write an epic sports piece. It would be about the
pressures faced by a young player in Major League Baseball confronted with
steroids. I could describe his transformation throughout the process; how a
needle could change a boy into a man.The piece would be another
commentary on society and on the natural will to compete. It would show
the quiet desperation of someone trying to find moral peace in a world where
the end justifies the means. But I could never write about a character for
which I would never empathize.
My mother recommended with a leading female character. I would
portray myself symbolically, the sports reporter, covering the scandal behind
a young athlete who had been tainted by the steroids scandal. I would tell
my thoughts and fears as I entered a place dominated by seeming super
humans, and by a male-dominant office. It would be a call for women
everywhere, and by all means journalistic fiction. Feminism, however,
was not my territory; I decided to save that for someone more ambitious.
It was time to dig into the recesses of my subconscious. I began to
think about how a character could be slighted, or perhaps if they could have
happier moments. One character came to mind: Tammy, a sixteen year old
girl who had lived a life driven by the hollow voice of repetition. Tammy was
the face of Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, untreated and unacknowledged
by her parents, who were too engrossed in their own work lives.
Her family had one day a week together, which they normally spend
watching old movies in their living room. But Tammy had locked herself in the
bathroom, washing her hands continuously until she could position her fingers
perfectly under the sink. It was necessary for Tammy, who demanded
nothing less than order. She smiled painstakingly until she could hear her
family calling, at which point she decided that life would be best lived with
the faucet turned off. The tale fell short of my desired three pages, and was
quickly set aside.
The next possibility would be two female life partners fighting. One
would be servant-like, acting more as a mother who babied her children than
a significant other. She normally drove the life partner to college, which
was a few miles away, but had overslept because she had spent the night
cleaning. The other was more assertive, the way a spoiled child sometimes is
with his or her mother. The assertive one was furious with her life partner
because she had been late for school. It was the couple’s six month
anniversary. The servant-like life partner apologized profoundly. She
affectionately handed the other her gift, a ring. The other muttered slowly
under her breath, “Maybe someday...” as the assertive one walked away to
study. She gave no gift. This would be a tale of dysfunction on its many
levels. Again, there was not enough upon which to expand, and I was left
without a topic.
My fingers began to anxiously tap away at the keyboard, but all the
words had been taken by better writers. Writing seemed pointless. The word
mocked me with its clichés. The thought of writing was in itself clichéd. My
words were unable to capture the tumult that others such as Sherman Alexie
had managed to turn into a ballad. Nor were they able to take a series of
imperfections, and make them into a perfect art,as Raymond Carver had
done. They did not speak of dead joy. The words didn’t live to
begin with. Humans are fueled by feelings, impulses, and untamable wills
beyond explanation-all of which supersede the word. I wrote that it is not
the word, but the action behind it, that should concern us.
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"Live for today, but know that tomorrow always comes- even if not for you."-MollyMac
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